On Hold
by alasweneverdo
Summary: Human AU. Working two jobs to support her and her sister, Buffy feels suffocated by small town monotony, until she meets a single father named Angel who makes life all the more livable. Written for IWRY 2012.


**NOTE:** I would rate this somewhere between PG-13 and R for sexual situations and some dark-ish themes, so it's M just to be on the safe side.  
**SECONDARY NOTE:** Title taken from "Honeythief" by Halou.

* * *

"I said, watch. Where. You're. _Going_," the brunette seethed, hands on her hips as she glared daggers.

The boy who had bumped into her, initially apologetic, now wore a scowl that held an impressive level of contempt. "Look who's talking," he replied coolly. "Thought about having your tunnel vision checked out?"

When she drew herself up to full height she was only shorter than him by a small margin; her expression of withering fury lessened the gap even further. He shrank back at first, but then looked down on her defiantly. Her nostrils flared. "I've babysat _toddlers_ with more self-awareness than you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

From the sidelines, two adults let out simultaneous sighs: the man with tired embarrassment, the woman with amusement and exasperation. She had long since given up on being ashamed of her sister's actions.

"You wouldn't think a well-behaved child like her would even end up in detention," she commented dryly as the teenagers' voices rose in volume. They were like verbally aggressive peacocks. She was just glad there wasn't much of anyone roaming the campus to stumble across this spectacle.

Wincing at an especially colorful string of profanity, the man said, "I'll be surprised if this doesn't end in bloodshed."

The blonde shook her head, resigned in spite of the tiny smile on her face. "Dawn's a brat, but she's a pretty nonviolent brat." After a beat, she added, "I hope."

Remembering her manners, she turned to her companion and regarded him pleasantly, trying not to make her appreciation of his looks too obvious. "Hi, I'm Buffy. Long-suffering older sister of the demon spawn over there." She extended her hand on instinct; when he took it she was hit by an inexplicable wave of warmth, noting with mortification that the faintest blush had risen to her cheeks.

"Angel," he replied. Once they'd both let go, he seemed to look her over briefly, lips quirking in a way that she hadn't seen in ages. She had trouble remembering the last time she'd flirted with anyone—before Riley, probably—not that she necessarily considered any of this flirting. They were just two adults, meeting for the first time, having a nice, normal conversation. Then he asked, "If she's demon spawn, wouldn't that mean you are, too?"

Well, he had her there. She shrugged. "One of us was adopted." Glancing at the bickering pair, she said, "So based on what Dawn's told me, I'm thinking that's… Connor, right? Is he _your_ sibling of questionable relation?"

"Um." Angel's brows rose, expression filled with mirth. "My son, actually."

For a fraction of a second she thought he might be joking, but then she realized with shock that he was entirely serious. "Oh. Well, I just thought—I mean, you really don't look that old—"

"Don't worry about it," he cut in, saving her from an extended bit of rambling. "People make that mistake all the time. His mother and I were pretty young," he explained.

Oh god. So she'd been making googly eyes at a man who was older and probably _married?_ That was more than kind of mortifying. Clearly she had misread the entire situation. "Well hey, you've… aged really well," she offered lamely.

He made a noncommittal sound. "I guess I've done all right. You know, for thirty-one," he added in a teasing tone, no longer disguising his level of amusement.

So by "pretty young" he hadn't meant early college like she'd assumed: he meant _high school_. Dawn's age, practically. She let out a nervous laugh. "Okay, I'll just give up on this whole 'talking' thing while I'm still way, way behind." Biting down on her lip, she whirled back around to her previous position. Dawn and Connor were still locked in a heated battle of words, coupled with emphatic gestures.

Angel laughed. "No, really, I shouldn't be giving you a hard time. You made a completely valid assumption. In fact, let's start over." She turned her head to find him offering his hand. "I'm Angel. Former teenage parent."

A grin escaped her as she turned to face him fully, taking his hand once again. "Nice to meet you, Angel. I'm Buffy. And I think our respective relatives are about to murder each other."

Sure enough, Dawn had just slapped Connor in retaliation for what was probably a wholly uncalled for remark. A groaning Angel took a few steps toward them. "Connor," he called out over their squabbling, "get your stuff, we're leaving." As an addendum: "And would you stop picking fights?"

The boy bristled. "She hit _me!_"

Dawn argued, "Only because you said I was a dumb—"

"As much as I _don't_ want to hear the rest of that sentence," Buffy interrupted, "we should get going, too. C'mon, my shift starts soon."

For some reason Dawn looked somewhat disappointed; it was like she _enjoyed_ fighting with that kid. Buffy just hoped it wasn't a treat-him-like-crap-'cause-you-like-him kinda deal. After all, she'd just seen Angel's left hand, completely devoid of any rings, and it wouldn't do for her sister to start jonesing after the son of the only guy Buffy'd had any chemistry with in recent memory.

Not that she had any reason to think she would see him again, of course. That was exactly her luck. Suppressing a heavy sigh, she shot him an amiable smile, saying, "It was nice talking to you."

"You too," he returned. He looked to Connor, now by his side. "Ready?"

Connor's gaze flickered between his father and Buffy. He raised one eyebrow. "Aren't you gonna ask for her number?" he asked, his tone that of a person pointing out something stupidly obvious. She had to admire his straightforwardness.

Meanwhile, Angel was looking flustered. As payback for poking fun at her earlier, she goaded, "That's a good question. _Are_ you?"

"Uh—well, y'know, if you—"

She looked to her sister, trading amused glances, before Dawn procured a pen and paper from her bag. Buffy scrawled the digits out, then added her own name at the top in clear, loopy letters. "I work evenings," she supplied, handing him the slip. As he took it, that expression from before resurfaced, the appreciative smirk that warmed her insides like fresh espresso (though maybe she was just reminded of coffee because of the shade of his eyes).

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

At last in the safety of their car, Dawn whirled around to face her older sister with a demanding stare. "Who was _that?_" Her voice was unnecessarily low; it wasn't as though the guys had a chance of overhearing, considering they were a good fifty feet away.

Who was he? A tall and well-built stranger with a sense of humor and kind disposition and really gorgeous smile. The only man Buffy had found herself resisting the impulse to mentally undress in a long, long while. An ally in the treacherous world of raising a rebellious teenager. Someone who looked like a really good fuck.

"Oh, just some guy," she said, feigning indifference.

They kept the conversation relatively light till the third date. She'd invited Angel over for dinner—Dawn was crashing with a friend for the night and would thus be unable to spoil everything as she had the habit of doing, intentionally or otherwise—and now they were lounging on the couch (opting for caffeine instead of wine; alcohol made her drowsy). Being as close as they were, knees touching, made her giddy even though they'd already kissed. More than once. She felt like a high schooler all over again. Now, listening to him tell her about his son, she was fascinated.

"We were fifteen," he began after a long inward breath. "As soon as she found out, she wanted to get rid of it. Her parents were ready to kick her out if she did, though. It was her responsibility, they said."

"What about you?" asked Buffy. "What did you want?"

"I don't know. I didn't want her getting the abortion, but I didn't wanna be stuck raising a kid, either." He sighed. "So I guess I just hoped I'd wake up one day and my life would be back to normal." Pausing, he pursed his lips and made a thoughtful noise deep in his throat. After a moment he continued, saying, "She didn't smile a single time during the pregnancy, and when Connor was born she did it once, when she held him after ten hours of labor. It might've been the drugs, though."

She smiled, trying very, very hard not to dwell on the idea of childbirth that lasted for ten hours. She'd grown up wanting loads of kids, but once she hit adulthood she was struck with a strange and alienating fear of pregnancy. Whereas other women her age were starting to get the baby fever, Buffy shied away from the concept more and more. Having a stranger sharing her body, her _life_—even a tiny stranger made of bits of her—was too frightening.

But Angel said he'd been afraid, too, and maybe never stopped. "Everyone made it sound like I'd have this divine revelation when I saw him for the first time," he said. "But when she offered to let me hold him, I froze up. I still couldn't believe he was my kid, and then I was afraid I'd drop him. I'm still scared I'll do something wrong," he admitted, "and I'm not sure if that's normal but I'm not sure I wanna know, either."

In a way, she knew the feeling. She was anxious about disciplining Dawn too little or too much; not setting the right example for her; not preparing her for the world. And even if she didn't have social services breathing down her neck half the time, she knew she'd still have all those worries bubbling in her gut. She nodded understandingly. "So—can I ask what happened to her?"

"Post-partum depression. She hanged herself when he was ten weeks old." His tone had the distant quality of someone who'd had to explain the same thing so many times that it didn't hold meaning anymore. He finished his drink in one last swallow, turning the empty mug in his hands.

She frowned. "Oh. I'm sorry," she said genuinely.

"I don't really deserve any condolences here," he replied with a wry smile. "Connor was the one who lost a mother. Maybe not a very good one, but we'll never know. And her parents lost their only child, but me? I didn't even _like_ her, if we're being honest."

Her eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "You didn't like your own girlfriend?"

"She… wasn't really my girlfriend. We hung around the same crowd, but that was about it. You could argue we didn't even go on dates." Expression sheepish, he added, "I was different as a teenager."

While she couldn't quite imagine the man in front of her having casual hookups with girls he didn't especially care for, Buffy was starting to learn that the Angel she'd met and the Angel of the past were separate entities. In a way it reminded her of Rupert Giles's stories of his debauchery and rebellion, all the more unbelievable now that he was a subdued and mild-mannered former librarian.

"Anyway, her parents raised Connor while I finished high school, then a family friend helped me move to California when I was nineteen. It's been an uphill battle most of the way, but I think Sunnydale's working out." When he shifted in his seat she caught a whiff of his aftershave. He smiled. "So, what about you? How'd you get where you are?"

Oh, wasn't _that_ a fun story. "Okay, I'll give you the short version. Parents' divorce was over and done with around the end of my freshman year, so Dawn and I moved out of LA with our Mom and settled down here. And, um, a few years ago she was having some health problems, so the doctors took a look around and found a brain tumor. They removed it, but a couple months later she had an—" She took a quick gulp of lukewarm coffee, then a calming breath. "An aneurysm. I found her when I came home one day." She didn't add that they'd taken that sofa and thrown it in the dump. No point specifying where the death had happened; and anyway, she didn't like thinking about it too much, even after all this time.

Angel's eyes were deep and troubled and sympathetic. "My parents died when I was twelve," he said, and she knew it wasn't a game of trying to one-up each other. He was telling her he understood, and she appreciated it. "That isn't something anyone should have to see."

She nodded. "I took an incomplete for the semester and started working to keep things going," she went on. "When the next term started, I—I didn't wanna go back to school, not after all that, but some of my friends moved in for a while and made me let them pay rent, and then Giles—god, he's more like a dad to me than my own father, you know?—um, he helped out with money and all the things I didn't really know how to do. Like filing taxes, changing tires—that stuff. And he said if I kept going to college for at least another year, he'd consider it paid back in full. So… now I've got a degree in religious studies with a minor in education, and nothing to do with either one since I work at a magic store on weekdays and serve food at a trashy diner every weekend to keep up with bills." A short laugh escaped her. "Living the dream, huh?"

There was a momentary pause. "You're amazing," he said in earnest. The look he fixed on her was one of admiration, and she felt that telltale heat lighting up her cheeks.

"But you're the single father here! You've been raising a human being on your own for over a _decade_, Angel. Know what I was doing ten years ago? Failing math." She shook her head vehemently. "All I've done is damage control."

"I think," he said, his body closer to hers than before, "you've just been trying to make do with your circumstances and not let anyone who needs you down. And I know how that goes."

Their gazes were locked, and she, unwilling to look away, reached blindly to put her mug down on a flat surface. He took it from her and set both of theirs aside without so much as blinking. He was wearing red. She liked him in red (or black or blue or grey or green or purple or—most colors, or possibly nothing at all).

Blurting out the first thing that came to mind, she said, "I haven't dated in almost four years."

He grinned, but looked the slightest bit bemused. "I haven't in longer," he replied. "Why are you mentioning this now?"

"Well, just that, I mean, if this is going where I think it is—I thought you should know." And she really hoped it _was_ going where she thought it was, or else her skills at reading between the lines were rustier than she thought and a hole would have to open up in the floor and swallow her into the earth.

Since she had the feeling he was about to mockingly _ask_ what she was thinking, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his, sinking into that warm feeling of their mouths moving against each other, his hands on her waist and the back of her head, both holding her steady and drawing her in. Binding like a boa constrictor. She could taste black coffee on his breath but didn't altogether care about the bitterness.

He didn't protest when she began unbuttoning his shirt, nor did she when he pulled hers over her head. For a short moment she had half a mind to suggest they relocate to the bedroom, where a spacious mattress awaited them, but there didn't seem to be enough time for any of that. There was too much going on, too many things she might miss if they paused for the thirty seconds it would take to rush to the second floor.

It was only when her back was pressed down into the cushions, his teeth against her collarbone, that she asked breathily if he had a condom.

He froze, and with a groan said, "You'd think after having a kid I'd remember that."

She laughed all the way up the stairs.

The face greeting her on the other side of the door gave her a start. "Riley," she said, trying to quell her shock. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in town catching up with some friends from UC Sunnydale. Thought I'd stop in and say hi. So… hi." He gave her a tight-lipped, slightly anxious smile. That honest face of his hadn't changed, still boyish and trusting in spite of his time spent abroad doing god knows what. Killing people, maybe. There was an untold amount of blood on his hands.

"Hi," she echoed. "Uh—come in."

They sat across from each other in the living room. Before she could become too preoccupied with thoughts of how many times she and Angel had had sex on the very couch where Riley was seated, she asked if he wanted anything to drink.

"No thanks." An awkward silence fell. "How've things been for you these past few years?" he asked.

"I'm seeing someone," she said at once. "We've been dating for two months now." She looked down at her hands, fingers digging at the fabric of her pants. "It's the first time I've really made a connection with anyone since Mom died."

"I heard about what happened to her. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral." And he obviously meant it, since Riley was one of those guys who didn't have any reason to lie. He had always said exactly what was on his mind and hadn't been able to take it when Buffy couldn't do the same.

She sighed. "I wouldn't've wanted you there anyway," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

"I don't blame you," he replied. "Listen, I don't want there to be any bad blood between us. I know it was childish of me to run off on you like that, but…" It was his turn to sigh. "Sometimes things happen for a reason, right? If I hadn't left, I would never have met my wife."

Jerking her head up, she searched that honest face for any visible signs of deception, then her gaze fell to plain band on his ring finger. Irrational jealousy and ire filled her—not because Riley had found someone who wasn't her, but because he'd been able to accomplish so much with his life while she stagnated in Sunnydale.

She drew in a breath and said, "Well, I'm glad. While you've been off doing all the things you've dreamt of since you were ten, I've been working fifty-two hours a week to keep me and my sister off the streets while making sure she can afford to go to college. I'm only home right now because the diner I work at for my second job is closed for inspection. But really, Riley, it's great that your life's been so fulfilling."

His expression was wounded. "Buffy, I didn't come here to brag or start a fight, I swear. I just wanted to see if enough time had passed that we could—"

"What? Be friends?" she demanded. "You give me an ultimatum, leave to join some special forces operating overseas, then come back and tell me how _glad_ you are that you dumped me? And after everything I've been through, you—you expect me to be okay with that?" She could only shake her head in disbelief, looking at him with unconcealed hurt and disgust.

She half expected him to clench his jaw, shout, throw something, lash out and tell her how unfair she was being, but he deflated, hanging his head. "You have every right to be mad. I know I would be in your position. But I've missed having you around, talking to you. You were a big part of my life when we were together, and then you were gone. And I know that was my fault," he added before she could interrupt, "but it doesn't make it any less true."

"Then I'm sorry to keep your life from being even more perfect." She stood in one swift, robotic motion. "I think you should leave."

"Buffy—"

"Look, Riley, maybe someday when you're living in a big farmhouse in the countryside with twenty kids and a dog I'll be happy for you and we'll make up and send each other Christmas cards. But I'm not there yet, okay? Even though I don't love you anymore, what you did still hurts. What you're doing _now_ hurts. And I have better things to do with my time than sit here and let you feel sorry for me for not having everything you have."

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. The hot sting of tears pressed against the corners of her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. He was on his feet now too, hesitating, as though he wasn't sure whether to hug her or walk out the door.

He tore away from her furious gaze and asked, "Does this guy make you happy?"

Without hesitation, she answered, "Yes."

He nodded. "Then I'm glad you finally found someone who does." He let himself out, leaving her in a state of indignant rage and upset.

The tears never came, but she found herself sniffling as she dialed a familiar number; when he picked up she made an effort to keep her voice level, though the readiness with which he agreed to come over made her think she'd failed on that front. It just wasn't her day, was it?

By the time Angel arrived she had calmed a bit, the angry flush fading from her cheeks as she nibbled on mini-pretzels. She nestled into his lap and let her eyes fall shut. Without opening them she told him about Riley, past and present.

He stayed quiet until she was finished. Then: "Are you unhappy with your life?"

She almost laughed, but only out of hysteria. People were asking so much of her, wondering how she felt and, it seemed, what it meant for them. They all wanted a slice of regret pie. "I'm happy with you," she said, "and I'm grateful to have a sister who's always conveniently elsewhere when I need her to be."

"But everything else?"

It all came tumbling out of her in a rush. "I hate my jobs. Both of them. I hate that I'm stuck here in this little town with no way out, I hate having degrees I can't do anything with, I hate that my mom is dead and my dad hasn't talked to me since her funeral. And I hate having an ex-boyfriend who's married and gets to—to do all these exciting and dangerous things while I sit here with no future.

"And even that wouldn't be _too_ bad, but you know, my two best friends—one of them is off studying law at Harvard, and the other is building his dream house for him and his fiancée to move into after their wedding." Her grip on the front of his shirt tightened, vice-like. "Everyone else is running marathons and I'm… paraplegic, or something."

For a while he held her, not saying anything. He wasn't all that talkative when he wasn't asked a question or expected to give input—which was fine, though sometimes frustrating.

When he finally spoke, he started off slowly, uncertainly: "This isn't something I tell people, since they're always telling me how 'brave' I am, but I feel trapped, too, a lot of the time. There isn't much waiting for you when you're a single dad in your thirties with no college education. The only thing keeping me from being as overworked as you is the money Connor's grandparents send every month." As he went on his thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, soothing, distracting her momentarily from the buzzing in her head. "I respect the hell out of you for the sacrifices you make, Buffy. And no one else in your life is gonna know just how much you've given up."

He was right, of course; everyone would talk about how strong she was, how generous, but they only commented on it as one would on the weather. The skies were cloudy and Buffy was a giving soul. Before she met Angel, she hadn't known anyone who had even the slightest idea what her life was like, and while having him there with her didn't make the ugly reality of her life go away, it made it more livable.

"Angel?" He hummed in response. "I love you. You don't have to say it back or anything, but—I do. If that's all right."

He laughed. She finally opened her eyes, craning her neck to look up at him with a furrowed brow. "You don't know how long I've been waiting for you to say that." Then he kissed her, murmuring against her lips, "I've loved you almost as long as I've known you."

Dawn came home to find the two of them lying entangled on the floor where they'd fallen from the armchair, tears of mirth rolling down their cheeks as they laughed breathlessly. She regarded the couple with wary discomfort. "Are… you okay?"

Unable to reply, Buffy nodded before burying her face in Angel's heaving chest. Looking confused and a little disturbed, Dawn backed away slowly and darted off to her room.

It was late on a Friday night when she asked him to move in with her.

Both recently showered, she breathed in the aroma of soap that still clung to his skin, her damp hair trailing over his torso while she utilized him as a makeshift pillow. She liked the smell of his soap, but it was so rare for them to stay the night at his and Connor's apartment that she hardly got to appreciate this particular shower-fresh state. What started as a contented sigh became a low groan at the back of her throat.

"Tired?" he guessed correctly. "I should drop you off at home; that'll give you more time to sleep in before work."

"Un-uh," came her obstinate reply. "Home doesn't have you." And she'd had a long day at the shop, so getting in some quality Buffy-Angel time was a necessity for her mental health.

That got her to thinking about how living in separate places was inconvenient, and her house was closer to the high school, and…

"You should move in," she said at once.

If he was at all surprised by this suggestion, he didn't show it. Voice calm and measured, he asked, "Shouldn't you talk this over with Dawn?"

Yes. No. Probably. Buffy groaned. "She's a teenage girl. Unreasonable by nature. There's no point in even _asking_."

"Yeah, okay," Dawn ended up answering with a shrug.

Was she hearing right? Did her sister really say that? Her bratty, narrow-minded, contrary sister? "Dawn, we're talking about having two guys move into our house. One of whom is practically your _arch-nemesis_. And your response is 'yeah, okay'?"

Dawn, heaping a generous amount of melted butter on her toast (some of which dripped down her hand and onto her sleeve), rolled her eyes. "It doesn't sound like that big a deal, Buffy. Besides, I don't _hate_ Connor. We just like to argue." Now she was loading on dollops of thick strawberry jam, licking her fingers as she went. "You know how sometimes there are people you only talk about a few things with 'cause that's all you have to talk about? We don't have anything to say when we're not calling each other retarded. But I guess we did talk about Jim Carrey that one time…"

"And… you don't mind having him and Angel around here all the time? Here, where you sleep and practically inhale your food and dance around to boy band music in your underwear?" Buffy asked, eyebrow raised suspiciously.

"That. Was _one time_." Shooting her a frosty look, Dawn took her toast and cereal in hand and loped off to the table. To Buffy, that sounded a lot like the end of the conversation, and for once, almost impossibly, it had gone the way she'd wanted it to.

She stood frozen in shock for a long moment. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she turned back to the refrigerator; when she opened it and gazed at its contents, enough for two, she pictured it full of leafy produce and succulent meats, stacks of yogurt and cheese, eighteen-count egg cartons, as it had been when the others were staying with them, or when their mom was alive. The fridge hadn't been full in a long time.

When she spoke to Angel again, he said Connor was slightly skeptical—which, for him, was a good sign, since he wasn't in the habit of keeping his protestations to himself. After letting out a great whooshing breath that took with it all her anxieties, she looked at her lover with uncomprehending amazement.

"So you're… moving in. With me." It started to sink in as a real fact and not just a hypothetical scenario.

Though he'd seemed perfectly neutral to the topic prior to now, Angel broke into a grin. "Yeah, looks like it," he confirmed.

His infectious smile spread to her own mouth. "You know what this means?" she intoned eagerly. "Well, besides seeing each other every morning and night and stressing over the inevitable bickering of the children we're duty-bound to care for?"

"What?"

"Waffles every Sunday." As an afterthought Buffy added, "Potentially eating waffles naked in bed, too."

"Mm." His hand found hers, fingers weaving together like yarn. The simple ring he wore on his middle finger pressed lightly into her skin and marked it with shallow lines. "You really know how to make breakfast foods sound appealing."

With a coy smirk she drummed her fingers against the back of his hand, stared up at him, and said, "I can make them _look_ pretty appealing, too."

In the end they spent that first Sunday morning locked in her—_their_ room, all mention of breakfast forgotten till the time came that she had to rush to get ready for work. He was still lazing in bed when she finished dressing (and with the way their day had started, she wished she could do the same), and she pressed her lips to his one more time in farewell before tripping over her feet to get out the door.

She nearly spilled coffee on a customer partway into her shift, her mind still stuck on thoughts of Angel splayed out indulgently on the mattress with rumpled hair and a sinful sort of look in his eyes. She realized she could spend every morning like that: waking up to him pressed up against her and groaning quietly into her hair, rolling over to share a half-asleep kiss, giggling and making love for an inordinately long time. Then, wincing, she started to feel a reminder of their activities in the form of an aching soreness.

So all right, maybe not _every_ morning.

Connor's hair was getting long. Buffy noticed this when the teen looked across the table at her, bangs hanging like a shade over his eyes. He met her eye before looking away, focusing instead on the tabletop as he wolfed down his sandwich.

He'd been acting strange around her for a few days, and she wasn't sure if she had done something to bring this on or not. Cocking her head, she asked, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he grunted around a mouthful of ham and rye.

She pulled a face. "That's disgusting, keep your mouth closed."

Rather than throwing back a snappy retort or rolling his eyes in annoyance, he went about chewing his food in silence. Once he was done he glanced up at her again—just for a second—and mumbled, "I don't have to call you _Mom_ or anything, do I?"

Her eyes bulged. She was glad she'd finished her coffee, as she would likely have spat it halfway across the room. As it was, she coughed, the surprise of his statement causing her lungs to forget for just a moment how to be lungs as she choked on empty air.

"Why would you—Connor, I'm, um, I'm not married to your dad, you know." She laughed uncomfortably. The seed of panic had already been planted, now taking root. She had never, in all this time, considered the possibility that if the day ever came that she and Angel _did_ get married—however unlikely it was—that would make her a stepmother. The thought made her blanch.

"You practically are," he argued. "Look, don't tell him I said this or anything, but since I was a kid he's only had a few girlfriends, and he didn't seem to like any of them half as much as he liked you that first day you two met." He stood from his chair, empty plate in hand. "I dunno, it's weird seeing him all… _in love_ or whatever, I guess. Anyway, I'm not calling you Mom, since you're barely older than Aunt Kathy and it's weird either way."

"Aunt Kathy?" she repeated to herself, frowning. "Wait, Angel has a _sister?_"

Buffy asked her boyfriend about it later, and he stared in surprise, saying he thought he'd already told her. He'd made some reference of practically everything else in his life by now, after all.

Kathy was younger than him by a decade. Where he'd been the problem child (a concept Buffy was finally able to wrap her head around, having spotted traces here and there of the impertinence and hedonism that comprised his past), Kathy was the favorite with their grandparents: well-behaved, bright and promising. She was going to Princeton on scholarship, where she majored in art history and political science.

"She goes home to New York in the summer, but every Christmas she flies in to visit. You can meet her then," he said. "Still, it's pretty far off. You'll like her, though. She gets along with everyone."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, she sounds a lot like my friend Will—_oh!_" She all but leapt out of her seat, one hand clutching her chest as though cardiac arrest had struck. "Oh oh oh! Willow's coming back this month! God, I can't wait to introduce you—y'know, I haven't even _told_ her about you yet, so she'll completely lose it when she gets here and finds out I've settled down with a guy and not intentionally scared him off or anything."

Looking up at her in amusement, he asked, "Is that what you normally do? Scare them off?"

"If _you_ got set up with obnoxious losers you didn't have anything in common with, you'd want a way out, too," she grumbled, then brightened. "But now people can't make frownyfaces at me for being single anymore! And now I don't have to deal with awful blind dates, 'cause honestly, I love Willow, but her taste in guys has _really_ gone downhill."

What Buffy didn't say was that she feared Willow's ability to find guys for her had vanished in a similar manner as their friendship. They talked on the phone every so often, but the connection they'd had as teenagers wasn't quite there anymore. And it wasn't that they didn't like each other—there just wasn't much to talk about now that Willow was out of Sunnydale and living it up at one of the most prestigious schools in the country.

And what would they do now that Willow didn't have the excuse of unsubtly trying to play the part of the wingman? Would everything revert to awkward silence? The only things they had in common now were memories, and the reminiscing could only go on for so long before it grew old. She felt herself sag a little in disappointment.

"Well," Angel began, pulling her back down gently by the hand, "I'm glad she did such a bad job setting you up with people."

Sinking into his arms with a smile, she replied, "I am, too."

The first thing she noticed was that Willow was growing her hair out again. Gone was the short bob she'd sported before, her ginger locks already falling past her shoulders. More prominent, however, was the aura of gleeful contentment she radiated from her every pore, a secretive smile toying with her curving lips at any given moment. She hadn't looked this happy since Oz.

"You've changed," Buffy accused with a playful grin, holding her friend at arm's length to appraise her. "Did they replace my reliable old Willow with a newer model?"

The redhead gasped in mock offense. "You're one to talk! Look at you, you're—see, I don't even know what you are, and I'm a future lawyer, I know how to say things!"

Buffy laughed, inwardly pleased that someone had noted a difference in her. She liked to think things had changed at least a little. She took Willow by the hand and led her inside, away from the harsh heat. "Okay, there's someone I want you to meet."

Willow's eyes widened. "Is this a male kind of someone? Should I be excited, or… possibly frightened for my life?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that." Turning her gaze upward, Buffy saw a familiar shape at the top of the stairs. "Connor, where's Angel?" she called.

First he was hovering by the top step, but he was down at their level in a heartbeat. "He's upstairs somewhere," the boy answered, eyes fixed on the woman next to her. He seemed interested in an extremely wrong and gross and illegal kind of way. "Hi, I'm—"

"Leaving," Buffy filled in. He glared, towering over her, but she was unmoved. "You promised to go with Dawn to the mall, remember?"

Seeming to remember they had company, he narrowed his eyes, going pink. "Okay, fine. Dawn!" he shouted as he shuffled off to the next room. "Move it or lose it!"

"Who…?" Willow gave her a baffled look. Buffy shook her head.

"You'll find out. Wait down here a minute?"

Angel was in their room, which had turned into nothing short of a warzone in her absence. Shirts were lying in organized heaps all over the bed, some hanging off the dresser or blinds, and at the moment her boyfriend was rifling through articles of clothing in the closet with feverish distress.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching the spectacle before her. "It's pretty life-altering to realize your boyfriend is really a sixteen-year-old girl," she noted, watching him toss a sweater haphazardly to the floor. "I dunno what to do with this newfound discovery."

It took a moment for him to respond, still half-dressed and buried in the closet. "It's a stupid thing to obsess over, right? But her opinion means a lot to you, and I just wanna look like—" He halted his movements, the chaos briefly at a standstill.

"Like what?"

"Like the kind of man you deserve." It was a mumble, quick and almost indecipherable, but when it reached her ear she frowned.

She walked closer, and, chastising, said, "If we're playing that game, I really should've dressed for the occasion."

He spared a short glance toward her off-the-shoulder top and worn jeans, then said dismissively, "You look fine."

"Angel, don't be diff—all right, here, just go with this." She grabbed a shirt from the bed at random and thrust it in his direction without bothering to look at it.

His eyes narrowed in a manner not unlike his child's. "You're not even _trying_ to be helpful."

"Honey, if it were up to me, you'd be naked," she told him with a tight-lipped smile. "Now can you hurry up so that friend of mine you're bent on impressing doesn't have to live out the rest of her youth down there?"

When he finally emerged he followed her down the stairs. If she didn't know any better she'd think he was trying to hide behind her, which was a hilarious notion, considering her petite size and his six-foot, rather muscular frame. In fairness to him, though, she'd never introduced him to anyone in her life but Dawn. Even Xander and Anya had yet to meet him, the reason being that she saw Anya nearly every day at work and Xander half as often when he brought his fiancée dinner.

From the foot of the stairs, Willow watched in apparent fascination as they descended. "Will, this is Angel," said Buffy once they reached the bottom. "Angel, meet the infamous Willow."

They shook hands, and Willow said with a bright smile, "Hi, it's nice to meet you even though I know absolutely nothing about you and wasn't aware you existed until just now."

He looked sideways at Buffy, amused. "She wanted to make sure you were surprised."

And it was clear that she was, too. Whatever Willow had expected to find upon her return to Sunnydale, a radiant Buffy with a sexy guy living in her house didn't seem to be it. Her expression deemed it a pleasant surprise, though, and that was what counted.

She addressed Buffy: "On my flight here I had this whole speech planned out where I told you I'm a lesbian and I've been dating this girl since the beginning of fall term, though now I'm kinda starting to doubt the lesbian part. Hi," she said again to Angel, cheery but anxious.

Buffy ignored the implications about her boyfriend's looks and focused in on the rest of it. "You're—oh. Oh! That's—unexpected. But totally great," she was quick to add, hoping she didn't sound insincere.

Willow shrugged. "Yeah, it's pretty neat, I guess."

Understatement of the century. She had the whimsical, misty-eyed look of someone with a stolen heart. That was what Buffy had noticed about her, the fundamental change that had occurred. Maybe that was what Willow had caught onto as well. They were both girls in love—no. _Women_ now. They weren't kids at Sunnydale High anymore, but real, genuine adults with fulfilling relationships.

"So who was the kid earlier?" Willow asked abruptly.

Buffy and Angel shared a will-you-take-this-or-shall-I look. Buffy took a deep breath.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about that weird conversation I had with Connor?"

He swore under his breath as a guy in a jeep cut him off, then answered, "Not that I remember. When was this?"

"Back in May. He was saying you and I are pretty much married and it gave him the wiggins to see you all lovesick."

He tore his gaze off the road for a short couple of seconds to ask, "And you're bringing this up now because?"

The rays of the late summer sun touched over her hair like a long-lost cousin. It was too beautiful a day for her to feel this forlorn, but she did anyway, the grand allure of her ever-shrinking future waving from a distance. With a deep frown she turned away, staring out the window at nothing in particular. "Just remembered, I guess."

They were on the interstate and couldn't very well pull over, but Angel's silence indicated he wanted to sit face-to-face and talk about her feelings, and while it was nice of him to care so much she was tired of complaining all the time and never taking action. She was tired of being _stationary_. What she wanted was movement, change, something entirely new and different and spectacular.

Yet there she was, still in the one-Starbucks town that was Sunnydale, and no matter how far they drove or how long they stayed away that little town still had its hooks in her, digging into her skin and refusing to let go.

"I'm fine, Angel," she said. "You can stop looking at me like a worried mom."

She knew he wanted to say something. He _always_ wanted to say something. But she glanced over and saw his lips pressed firmly together, his gaze on the road unwavering. Her heart sank, and all at once she wished he _would_ speak up and tell her she was strong and beautiful and courageous and would get through all this because he believed she would.

Soaked to the bone in disappointment, she turned back to the window, biting back a sigh. Minutes passed without interruption. She could turn the radio on, but this unhappy quiet was better than false cheer.

At last he said, "I know you were looking forward to this last-minute trip to see your dad, but instead you're gonna call him and reschedule because something came up."

She didn't know what he was getting at. "What?"

"We both have nearly a week off, so I'm getting off at the next exit and heading to LAX, where you'll pick a flight. Whatever your first choice is, we're going."

She gaped dumbly. Was he being serious? He was. He had Serious Face on and everything. The first question that came to mind was, "Anywhere? Even Brazil?"

"_Especially_ Brazil," he confirmed. "We've got our passports ready and nowhere else to be for a few days."

So that was why he'd been so quiet. He was planning, calculating, trying to estimate how much was saved in his bank account that wasn't necessary for other expenses. Probably trying to figure out a game plan for the kids, too—and as incompetent as they sometimes acted, she felt they could handle being left to their own devices for a while, no supervision required. Dawn knew where to find the emergency fund and had the numbers for Xander and Anya and Dad and even Giles memorized. And all this just because Buffy seemed sad.

"Wherever we go," she told him decisively, "the first thing I'm doing when we set foot in our hotel room is taking off your clothes and riding you so hard you forget your middle name."

The car swerved jerkily. He cleared his throat. "Got it. Okay. Sounds fair."

She made good on her promise when they arrived in Madrid, the sheets smelling of roses and fabric softener as they fell to the bed as one being. And there was no feeling of suffocation anymore as she felt his hands on her hips, no dreadful inadequacy as her quickened breathing turned to wordless cries of approval. She was twenty-four and she had her whole life ahead of her. A life with him, maybe.

The moment they were both up for it they went at it again; this time he made a nervous request and she was quick to give it the go ahead, so in the heat of the moment he lowered his mouth and bit hard into the juncture where neck met shoulder.

Her immediate reaction was to gasp in shock, her eyes bugging as she let out a short cry. But after she got over the initial pain and surprise she hummed and urged him on, knowing he'd drawn blood and would have left an impressive bruise but not presently giving a shit about any of it.

Afterward she watched him lovingly from across the pillow. "What did I do before I met you?" she wondered, breathless.

"Had better skin, probably." She winced as his fingers grazed over the bruise.

"_Pffffft_, skin, who needs it."

It was the middle of the day, but she hadn't slept much on the long flight and her jetlag was catching up to her. The sex had probably played a part as well. Sharing one last contented smile, she nestled into him and fell into wonderful, glorious sleep.

After several minutes of pacing, she finally stopped in front of him and, wringing her hands, blurted, "There's something I have to tell you."

His shoulders were tensed in the way they always were when he was moderately concerned. "Okay," he said slowly. "Is this a bad something?"

"A really bad something. A-a _gigantically_ bad something." She started to smooth her hands over her skirt distractedly before making distressed noise and resuming her pacing once more. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

Buffy wasn't especially prone to swearing, except when she was surprised, worried or flat-out pissed off. Angel's eyes followed her as she repeatedly made the circuit from nightstand to doorway and back. As he opened his mouth to speak she whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"_You!_ This is your fault! You have this—this special power or something, but instead of super speed or invisibility or, I don't know, talking to _fish_, you just—AUGH!"

The air of confusion emanating from him was so thick as to be tangible. "Buffy, what are you—?"

"_I'm pregnant_," she snapped. "Condoms and birth control be damned, your _super sperm_ weaseled its way in and I'm—god, Angel, there is a _fetus in me_. Do you have any idea how disgusting and terrifying that is?"

Just then her mask of disbelieving fury cracked. She was wide-eyed and looked frightened, betrayed, and so, so lost. And Angel stared at her with an expression not dissimilar to the one Dawn had worn when Buffy told her Santa wasn't real.

"You're… sure? How many tests?" he demanded.

"Eight," she said. "You can't even imagine how much I had to drink to build up enough pee for that." She sank to the floor brokenly. "I can't do it, Angel. I don't have the money, I don't have the time, I don't even _want_ kids—"

"Hey, hey," he murmured, already at her side and enveloping her with his sturdy arms, her cheek against his too-goddamn-big heart. "It's okay. You'll be okay. No one's making you do this, all right?"

It was only when she felt the front of his shirt grow wet that she realized she was crying. Blubbering, in fact. It was a nice shirt, really, and now it was about to be covered in snot. She sniffled. "And—d'you know the kinda stuff they_ say_ about women who get abortions?" she sobbed. "If my mom were alive, she—she'd be so _ashamed_, Angel. And you won't love me anymore, a-and everyone's gonna think I'm a terrible person. And I _am_."

Though he spoke softly, she could still feel the rumble of his chest as he said, "No, shhh, you're not terrible, and no one who's ever known you could be ashamed of the choices you've made. Plus, it would take a lot more than this for me to stop loving you, Buffy."

"But—" she began to protest.

"Just listen. Connor is my life and I care about him more than I've ever cared about anything on this planet. And raising my son's made me a better person than I would've been otherwise. No question. But I would never expect someone to raise a child they couldn't support, or to carry one to term if they didn't want to.

"I'm at a point in my life where I don't mind the idea of settling down and having more kids. But as someone who's already been through it once, it wouldn't bug me if I didn't get to again. I won't feel a hole in my life if that doesn't happen, and I know you won't, either." He kissed the top of her head. "If you're worried about what people might think, we don't have to tell anyone. It's your choice, Buffy, and whatever decision you make I'll be behind you, a hundred percent."

She buried herself deeper into him till it felt like she could almost disappear. In a muffled half-whimper she confessed, "I'm so scared, Angel."

She was scared of this baby inside her, scared of the process involved in getting rid of it, scared of what this would mean for their future and absolutely _petrified_ at the mere thought of going through this again. And what's more, she was scared of how fast this was all going and how her life was filled with Angel every moment of every day, and nine times out of ten it was the greatest thing in the universe, but the only step left for them was marriage and she just wasn't ready.

When they went to the clinic the next week, the doctor ended up telling Buffy privately, after a series of examinations, that there was no need for a procedure of any kind.

This news triggered instinctive panic. "What do you mean? Why? What's going on?"

"You've miscarried," he explained. "It happened early enough in the pregnancy that the tissues will probably be expelled on their own. You shouldn't need any treatment; it's like having a heavy period, really. I recommend coming in for a follow-up if you…"

He went on for a while longer and she nodded, glad to avoid the procedure but wondering if her relief made her a bad person. Most women were devastated when they miscarried; all Buffy could do was let out a sigh that sucked all the stress and anxiety out of her body. There hadn't been anything to worry about after all. If she'd waited another week the pregnancy scare would never have even happened.

And she wouldn't be filled with so much worry and apprehension over the best relationship of her life, either.

The front door opened, then shut with a shuffle and a click. Muting the television, Buffy listened with a frown, a glance at the clock telling her it was barely noon. "Hello?" she called.

After a moment she got her reply: "Yeah, it's me."

"Connor?" She turned off the TV and headed for the foyer, where she caught sight of him heading into the dining room. "What are you doing home already?"

He stopped in his tracks, halfway through the doorway. His backpack was slung loosely over one shoulder and caused his shirt to shift to one side. He said nothing, not even turning to face her.

Hands on her hips, she stood with patient authority. "Well?"

First he let out a tired sigh. When he turned around she clapped a hand to her mouth in shock and, after the initial horror faded a bit, hurried to him. "What _happened_ to you?" she asked, looking from his black and swollen eye to the dried blood at one corner of his mouth.

He lifted his chin, defiance in his eyes—eye, that is, one of them sealed shut. "Jason and I got in a fight. They were gonna call home, but I said no one was there so they just made me leave, and now I'm suspended for the rest of the week."

"Wait—you and Jason? Fighting each _other?_ I thought you two were friends."

"He said Dawn was a stupid cunt." Buffy flinched. "And I know I call her worse stuff than that all the time, but it's not like I _mean_ any of it. So I told him to shut up, and he said I was just defending her because she was—putting out," he finished, censorship obvious.

"So you hit him?" she prompted.

"No, I told him to stop being a fucking idiot, and he hit _me_." He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance.

"But you hit him back, right?"

He looked indignant. "Of course I hit him back! What do you think I am, _stupid?_"

She smiled, her touch gentle as she pushed his bangs away from his wounded eye. "Good. Come on, let's get you some ice."

As she passed through the sunlit dining room to the kitchen, it took a few beats for him to start following behind her, saying, "Wait, you're not gonna lecture me?"

"Why would I?" she questioned with a single glance over her shoulder. "He hit you first, you made the creep bleed, and now you get a few days off. Anyway," she added, opening the freezer and grabbing the ice tray, "I'm not the one who gets to punish you."

She detected real confusion in his voice when he said, "You aren't?"

Dumping a large handful of cubes into a dishtowel, she shot him a curious look. His expression was almost vulnerable, brow slightly furrowed and lower lip going inward just enough for him to bite down on it. "Your dad's the judge, jury and executioner. But I'm pretty sure he'll just sigh and look annoyed, then ask if you put that loser in the ER. Here, try not to press it too hard."

He held the ice against his wounded eye, still watching her. "Thanks, Buffy," he said eventually. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but just shook his head and stalked off to his room.

She smiled. She didn't feel at all like a mom, but Connor—he was like family now. And if his protectiveness over Dawn was any indication, he felt the same way.

When they told the full story to Angel later on, he sighed, adopted a look of irritation, and said after a moment, "Next time, hit first."

"_Angel!_"

"I don't think that's what you meant to write."

"It's not?" Dawn took the paper back and scanned over it. "What's wrong with it?"

Angel tapped his finger on the word in question. "The cactus is brave?"

She stared at the sheet for a moment before slumping over with a groan. "I hate false cognates," she wailed.

It was always entertaining to watch Angel try and fail to help Dawn become a competent Spanish speaker. The girl was barely scraping by with a C. Smiling to herself, Buffy continued on into the next room, shuffling through the mail that was mostly comprised of junk. Ad, ad, magazine subscription, ad, bill…

As she reached the end of the stack, she paused, staring blankly at the white envelope. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the weight of it; one finger slid under the seal and slowly tore it open, smooth as skin under a knife. Too smooth. Her heart was drumming in her ears when she pulled out the folded paper.

"Angel," she said, quietly at first, then raised her voice to repeat at a near-yell, "Angel."

He sauntered into the room at far too relaxed a pace. Hands in pockets and all. "Everything okay?"

"Do you remember what day the answering machine broke?" she asked. Her voice tone was impressively calm, almost distant.

He seemed to think on this for a second. "Uh—Tuesday before last, I think? Why?" Without a word she handed him the document. His eyes widened. "_Shit_."

"What's going on?" Buffy whirled around to find Dawn hovering at the dining room entrance, tentative and frightened like a wild rabbit. Something in Buffy's gut began to twist and slither unpleasantly. "Buffy, what is it?"

"They're taking you away," she said once she regained her voice. "You're going to live with Aunt Arlene. In Illinois."

Dawn's initial reaction was of utter disbelief. Buffy expected her sister to accuse her of lying or being wrong or trying to play a trick on her. Then her jaw fell, chin quivering, and her brow knit and eyes watered and she cried out in panic, "No! No, they can't do that! I'm not leaving, I'm _not!_"

Heartbroken and unable to look her in the eye anymore, Buffy averted her gaze, crossing her arms over her chest. "There's nothing we can—"

"_I'M NOT LEAVING!_" Dawn shrieked. She was furious, paralyzed, overwhelmed.

Buffy didn't know what to do. Angel had his arm around her, protecting her from the world, and he was speaking to her in hushed and reassuring tones but his words failed to register. She just stared at the tiled floor, defeated.

Being here felt like trespassing. She had this unshakable feeling that the cemetery was a home she'd been given no permission to enter, and when at last she stopped in front of the proper headstone it was like standing in a stranger's bedroom. She didn't belong.

When she breathed out a sigh she felt the cold snap of the breeze brush her cheek in a sharp kiss. God was paying His respects too, Mom might've said—with a hint of self-deprecation. They'd never been the churchgoing sort.

Flowers were for fresh graves or lost loves. She had nothing to offer the dead soil, so it was with guilt that she said, "Hey, it's me."

No reply. Maybe it was her fault for waiting so long between visits. It wasn't that she had forgotten or didn't care, but it was still hard, even now, to stand here and remember the awful reality of things: that her mom was lying dead in the ground and wasn't ever coming back. It was with great effort that she swallowed back her anxious grief.

"Sorry I haven't swung by in a while. I've been busy getting my life together, taking care of Dawn—but she, um, she had to leave yesterday. She failed a few classes and social services deemed me unfit and… now she's with your sister. So that's it." She put on a false smile. "What can ya do? It just happens. But I've still got the guys, so the house isn't empty like it would've been.

"I guess you don't really know who they are, though. I've been meaning to tell you all about the stuff that happened this past year, but…." Leaving that thought unfinished, she went on, "I met someone. His name is Angel and—he's the best thing that's ever happened to me. He takes care of me and he understands my problems and limitations, and he loves me even with all the bad and inconvenient things in my life.

"He has a son. Connor. He's Dawn's age—it's a long story." In spite of herself she laughed, just once, a short burst. "It's like having a kid brother, except that brother is also kind of your step-son. I know, I know, totally getting into _Jerry Springer_ territory. But things are good with them. Having Dawn leave isn't as hard. It still hurts, just less."

She sank down to her knees, reached out and laid a hand on the cool grass. No matter how long she pressed her palm to the ground, or whether her eyes were open or shut, she couldn't fool herself into thinking there was some mystical connection there. It was her, the grass, and the body. Nothing more. Still, she continued.

"I was almost a mom for real. It was a fluke, don't worry. But I thought of when you were pregnant with Dawn, with morning sickness all the time and the kicking in the middle of the night, and all I could think was that it sounded sucky and painful, and I couldn't do it. And afterward I thought about how you went through that twice and raised us even with your failing marriage, and you loved us no matter what we did. And I'm—" She choked on a sob. The tears were running hotly down her cheeks now as she cried without reservation, getting her makeup to run as they made their trails. "I'm glad you could be brave for us. And that—that you kept us. And I'm s-sorry for letting you down and not telling you how thankful I was every goddamn day." Her voice cracked, but after a few false starts she managed, "I miss you, Mommy."

When she returned home it was dark out. Her eyes were red, lids puffy and sticky with salt, and she had the worst case of sniffles imaginable—yet when Angel asked with worry if she was okay, she gave him a genuine smile. "I'm quitting the diner job. As of tomorrow I'll be in an exclusive relationship with the hell that is retail." And she kissed him hard, grabbing fistfuls of his sweater. He didn't complain.

Two weeks.

Why, in the name of all that was holy, did Buffy appear to be on a sexual hiatus that had already lasted _two weeks?_ A girl could only be expected to pleasure herself for so long. Angel, though, never appeared to be in the mood, or was otherwise too tired, too busy, unwell, or whatever excuse he could come up with. It was both frustrating and a huge blow to her ego.

Was he bored with her? Had he gotten tired of their sex life already? She thought this was the fate of married couples and _old_ people. They were young and in love, weren't they?

Or maybe he wasn't. In love, that is. Maybe he'd moved on and was trying to push her away slowly to make the transition easier on both of them. But no, that couldn't be right—he still embraced her fully as they slept, still made her coffee every morning, still kissed her on the lips before heading out the door and again as a greeting when she got home at night. He still did and said all those little things that had Connor making gagging noises at them.

Deciding to confront him directly, she stopped in front of him while he was in the middle of dressing for the day, fixing him with an expectant look. He had just pulled on his shirt when he saw her. "Yes?" he prompted, visibly bemused by her solemn expression.

"Am I not attractive to you anymore?" she asked bluntly.

Most men would have reacted with shock and confusion, going immediately on the defensive as they expressed vehement denial. Angel, however, let out an understanding hum. "You're upset that we're not having sex," he concluded.

Her eyes narrowed. "And you're not denying my accusation."

"Technically it was a question," he pointed out. "Anyway, I was going to break the news sooner, but…"

"But?"

She watched as, for the first time since the day they met, he started to blush. "It's… a sensitive topic. Recently I…"

…

…

She winced. "Did it hurt? Why'd you even get one?"

His response was a shrug. "I think I've done enough parenting to last me a lifetime," he confessed. "Anyway, it makes our lives less complicated, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but if you did it because you thought you _had_ to—"

"I didn't," he assured. "Really. It's not a big deal. Usually reversible."

With slight hesitation, she nodded. Then he said he was feeling fine and it was probably all right for them to make up for lost time, which made her brighten considerably.

Oh, how long had it been since they'd had time for this on a weekend morning? If anything they had a propensity for rushed sessions in the shower, but now there was no pressure for either of them to be anywhere for the day, and they could go at whatever pace they wanted.

Unfortunately, right when they were really getting into it—her turning over so he could push into her from behind, pressing back against him, the taste of cock lingering on her tongue—the worst sort of interruption happened. One moment she could feel sweat on the nape of her neck as he let out a groan against her shoulder, the tickle of his breath on her skin eliciting a breathless giggle, and then—

Oh, fuck.

On a scale of one to really awful, having Connor walk in on them was pretty damn bad. Buffy was mortified; Angel was mortified; Connor was attempting to play it cool but definitely mortified underneath his false exterior. When they all sat at the table later that day the air was thick with embarrassment, with revulsion and horror and—god, the poor kid had probably been able to pretend until now that his dad didn't even _have_ a sex life.

On the bright side, Buffy's dignity had been mostly preserved, a significant portion of her nude body having been covered by another equally nude body. A small miracle, but she'd take what she could get.

"I'm staying over at Luke's for the night," Connor announced quickly. "His mom's picking me up in ten."

Angel started to protest, but Buffy kicked him under the table. She shot Connor a good-natured smile. "All right, have fun."

Before he left, he looked at the two of them one last time and gave a violent shudder, his face going just a bit green. He was old enough that the "let's talk about what you saw" discussion wasn't necessary, so it was better if they all pretended this never happened. Anyway, what were the chances it would happen again?

Apparently pretty high, she realized months later, when he went downstairs in the middle of the night to investigate a suspicious noise and found the adults going at it on the sofa—and this time, unfortunately, he got a clear view of her getting eaten out by his dad. They couldn't look each other in the eye for a week, and the entire couch had to be cleaned twice before the teen would sit on it again.

In the space between the first and second time they traumatized Connor beyond repair, Christmas came and Buffy finally met Kathy. Oddly, in the days leading up to Kathy's arrival the blonde didn't feel as anxious about meeting the prodigal child as she felt she should have been; she was confident that anyone Angel praised as highly as he did his sister would have to be extraordinary, and rather than intimidated, she felt determined. She would make Kathy love her if it was the last thing she did.

This ended up being none too difficult a task, as Kathy seemed to adore her right from the beginning.

"I haven't seen you in _forever!_" Kathy squealed, hugging her brother tightly after having launched herself into his arms.

He laughed. "It's only been a year, you know." They separated, and he regarded her fondly. "It's good to see you."

Her grin was bright, dark umber eyes shining. There was a dimple on one cheek but not the other. Her long curls bounced as she turned with enthusiasm to the other woman. If possible, she grinned even wider. "Buffy, right?" She wrapped her in a friendly hug as well. Her perfume smelled of roses and honey.

"I've heard a lot about you," said Buffy, smiling at the younger woman when they parted.

This seemed to please Kathy. "Yeah, me too! I'm so glad I could finally meet you. It's not every day your only brother gets married."

Buffy and Angel looked at each other in confusion. "We're not married," Angel said.

"You're not?" Her face-splitting grin was replaced with a baffled frown. "Oh. Sorry, I just thought—" She gestured to Buffy. "You know, with the ring."

While Angel had a sudden look of comprehension, Buffy just looked down at her Claddagh curiously. "Oh, this? No, it's not a—a _ring_, just a… ring," she explained.

"It's just that the way you're wearing it is kind of confusing, I guess." Kathy glanced at her brother. "You told her how they work, didn't you?"

He rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "Yeah, about that—"

"What?" Buffy was utterly nonplussed. "This way for taken, the other way for single, right?"

"Oh-ho-_ho!_" Kathy's expression was gleeful as she clapped her hands together, holding them in front of her as though praying to the gods of mischief. "Oh, this is _priceless_. Angel, you are amazing. Not a compliment, by the way."

"What did he do?" asked Buffy, fiddling with her ring nervously.

Kathy gestured for her hand. Taking it in hers, she removed the Claddagh ring. "All right, here's how it works." She took Buffy's other hand and slid the ring onto her finger, heart pointed outward. "This means you're available." She pulled it off again and flipped it around. "This means you're taken." Going back to the left hand and flipping the ring again, she said, "Engaged." At last she returned it to its original position, heart inward. "Married."

For a moment Buffy was fascinated. Then she remembered to be annoyed, narrowing her eyes at her boyfriend. "I will have words with you later," she threatened.

Kathy and Angel were full-blooded Irish: first-generation Americans on one side, second-generation on the other. Their father, according to Angel, had been a deathly serious sort, intensely Catholic and not all that forgiving. A stickler for tradition and heritage, he'd made sure his son was well versed in the ways of their forefathers—or, at the very least, had attempted to make him so.

"When I told him I wasn't going to church, I thought he'd have a heart attack," he recalled, amused. The three of them were getting into the spirit of Christmas by indulging in eggnog, to which Buffy feared she'd added more whiskey than was strictly necessary. Connor had opted to go hook up his new PlayStation 2 in his room, so the fear of a minor accessing their booze was nonexistent.

They talked about life and family and things for a while. Buffy told them stories from when Dawn was a pint-sized little brat, surprised to find her stomach didn't turn with guilt—and better yet, talking about her mom didn't bring fresh tears to her eyes. Nor did mention of her dad fill her with bitterness. She felt okay about a lot of things, and she noticed, watching the siblings in front of her, that they seemed to be okay, too.

That hole in her chest, the loss and wanderlust and regret, didn't seem so unmanageable anymore. She met Angel's gaze and he smiled, the simple gesture giving her the same warm and liquidy feeling it had since day one.

Kathy was chatting animatedly, gesticulating as she related a tale of something that had happened in her philosophy class, and though the girl held most of her brother's attention Buffy made sure he was watching as she slid the ring off her finger, turned it so the heart pointed out, and placed it back on her left hand.

Angel stared for a long moment. His expression was dazed at first, then shifted to something indecipherable. He turned to Kathy and said something, and when he looked at Buffy again he was smiling.

"He's got such a crush on her," Buffy whispered, watching Connor and Willow from over Angel's shoulder. "He did get the memo that she's gay, right? And not available? And too old for him?"

Her husband snickered. "What are you, his mother?" he teased.

"As a matter of fact, I _am_," she said, nose upturned. Rolling her eyes at her step-son's antics, she turned her focus back to her dancing partner, settling against his chest and closing her eyes. She could hear the crickets starting to make their presence known even through the soft music; the air was thick, warm with summer and body heat, and she was so glad she'd decided on a June wedding.

Footsteps approached, which at first she ignored, given the number of people who passed every minute, but when their slow and peaceful dance halted she took notice. Especially when a familiar voice asked, "May I cut in?"

She was shocked enough to see Riley standing before them, but her shock increased by a factor of twelve when Angel did, in fact, step aside to let the other man dance with his bride. Buffy froze at first, thinking for a minute before taking his hand and resting the other on his shoulder.

"I didn't expect to see you here," she said, a bit awkwardly. "You know, considering I didn't invite you."

"Angel did. I met him the other day after I flew in. Nice guy," he commented in that sincere way of his. "I'm happy for you."

That, for whatever reason, made the tension fall out of her shoulders. "Thanks. So, do I ever get to meet Mrs. Riley Finn?"

"She couldn't make it. Maybe the next time I'm in California I'll bring her along." As an afterthought he added, "Her name's Sam, by the way. You'd like her; she makes fun of me for taking things too seriously."

"Sounds like my kinda girl," she replied with a grin. "Hey, about what happened last year—"

"I refuse to let you apologize for that," he said stubbornly. "You were right; I was being selfish and immature. I thought a lot about what you said, and by the time I finally worked up the nerve to try calling you, he"—he nodded toward Angel—"picked up the phone. I tried to tell him it might not be the best idea for me to show up at your wedding, but he insisted. Said it would make both of us feel better."

She hummed noncommittally. "Yeah, he has this weird thing about wanting me to be happy. It sounded like a good deal, so I figured, hey, might as well marry the guy."

They continued chatting, and when the song ended she decided it was time to go make gooey eyes at her new husband again. Riley went off to rescue Willow from her pesky teenage shadow, and Buffy leaned into Angel's side, his arm wrapping around her as he talked with some of his friends from work.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head and asked if she was ready to go. She glanced over at Dawn, who was swing dancing with Xander, then at Connor, who had apparently just decided Riley was the coolest guy he'd ever met. And her sister had a plane to catch in the morning, and Connor had an extended stay at a friend's house to look forward to, but they were both happy. The corners of Buffy's eyes crinkled with contentment.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think I am."

* * *

One last thing-I've noticed a few follows on this story, so let me make it clear now: There will not be a sequel. I do, however, have other BtVS works on my profile, so feel free to check those out if you liked this one. :)


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